


the slate is clean

by dreamhouse



Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:17:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamhouse/pseuds/dreamhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skin on skin. Lips on lips. Feel everything: the yellow light sliding out of your bedroom window like a sheet of velvet, warming you both as you remain tangled on the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the slate is clean

He is pressing open-mouthed kisses to your fleshy white shoulder blade.

  
The moon is glowing like a split apple in the sky: glowing, dripping, bathing your skin in a dull light that no flick or turn of a lamp can compete with. Consider tilting your head up. There is an itch drawing from the base of your stomach to the nape of your neck to lock your eyes with his, to use your free hand (the one not wrapped his waist, which feels smooth under your fingertips) to cup his chin. You can almost feel him smirking. Red lips splayed out in a grin, eyes squinted down—you have an itch to look at this boy and kiss him, but you can’t. No one really can, you think, a small ache thrumming through your bones.

  
When he dives in to kiss you, be pliant. The moon isn’t going anywhere, not now: soak it in while you can. You can clamber into your blue tights later, you don’t have to worry about him leaving now. Feel the grass on your bare back. Giggle into his chest and leave your lips there, your pulse wet and loud, a wave crashing, and an ocean in fragments. Let him run his fingers through your hair and hum, causing the laughter to spill out of you even more. Skin on skin. Lips on lips. Feel everything: the yellow light sliding out of your bedroom window like a sheet of velvet, warming you both as you remain tangled on the ground. Listen to his heartbeat, which synchronizes with yours at the bottom of the fluorescent –stung pool, the swimmer’s porcelain legs that twirl and twirl but never break. There is something bursting through you. He is beautiful.

  
His warm breath tickles your neck. “Mmm. I thank you. That was my first game of strip croquet.” He’s tugging lightly his jacket wrapped around the two of you. Snuggle into his neck, the cold hardly leaving bite marks on your skin. The window is still open. The moon hasn’t shifted a bit.

  
“Well, you're welcome. It's a lot more interesting than just flinging off your clothes and boning away on a neighbor's swing set.”

  
Exchange a few more words.

  
Give some, take some. You’ll still end up empty.

 

*

 

There is blood smeared on your skin, three people dead because of him (and you), his fingermarks printed harshly where they gripped: your neck, your face, your hips, your arms. There is a stagger in your step, a sharpness in your breathing, and there is a boy walking in front of you. He has a bomb strapped to his chest, the same chest that you bit and kissed and fell asleep into. (If you had to write a Eulogy, that definitely would be it).

  
“I'm impressed. You really fucked me up pretty bad, Veronica.”

  
Stare, blink.

  
“The slate is clean,” the words crumble from his lips. “Now that you’re dead, what are you going to do with your life?”

  
Say nothing. Push a cigarette into your swollen mouth.

  
He presses the button and holds out his arms.

  
Before you know it, the world is sobbing out, his body is blown. Don’t look. Don’t you dare. There is a cigarette now lit inside your rotten, bruising lips. There is a boy dead.

Walk away, the soot feeling like grass on your shoulders.

(The slate is clean. Don’t you dare stain it).


End file.
